


Sins of the Heatmate

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, First Time, Gentle Sex, Guilt, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pale-Red Vacillation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poor Karkat, Quadrant Confusion, Tentabulges, This Is Really Not Gamzee's Fault, dubcon, smutfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3680454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing Gamzee wouldn't do for Karkat, except tell him no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to work on something that was moderately less depressing than the other two lovely stories about fucked up quadrants, so here.  
> Multi-chaptered, fucked up quadrant porn.  
> You're welcome.

If there’s a limit on how long you’ll lie tangled and lazy, the only thing about him going off being that clever, vicious mouth of his, well, you ain’t found that yet. You wish you could bottle him up for the moments in between your Karkat fix, record him like a sermon because he’s _peace_.

This’ll be your fourth one together. He’s your moirail, and you couldn’t pity him more.

You know full well what you just spoke was a sin.

Tonight that heat-thickened scent of his smokes up through your nostrils, straight until you taste him in the back of your throat and _feel_ his itching in your claws. You can count his breaths as they hitch. Your expanded senses know his sopping underwear when the weight shifts and presses cherry red from the cloth, sticking and noisy, know when it picks up a rhythm that never lasts too long before Karkat goes still and hisses. His ass and mating parts make for loud music.

It’s because he hunches all the time, your little miracle does, walks crooked as a root (except when you startled him into laughing; your brother will stand up tall and spark your delight). Makes the lips of a puffed-out, hungry nook drag against the chair seat. If you were looking, there’d be a candy red blush to match, you’d watch the hair at the nape of his neck prickle, see his sweat steal the light.

And you’d get to pining for your thumbs to dig at the knots in his neck, your cool skin for his fever, then one hand on his horn, the other hand to chest or belly, pet on him while he shakes, see if he’ll spread his legs.

For you.

Heatmate, is what they’d call it—it’s the only word for what isn’t just a motherfucking _accident_ , when it comes to mating cycles. Moirails do not get friendly over any buckets, that is law carved in stone to your sharp-eyed miracle brother, and you agree with him. You’re also real good at nodding and smiling, maybe to your detriment sometimes, but a brother knowing it’s in his best interest to keep jaw shut, shit, that’s a fucking _life skill_.

Karkat wouldn’t be in your hive—wouldn’t have colonized your block for himself—if he wasn’t sure. He always chooses you. Knows you make him forget his name, so it’s pretty motherfucking pointless to debate how well a stranger might take to that pretty color he drips.

So it don’t matter why he sits apart from you, or whether he’s about to rocket through the ceiling from shooting so much rich pheromone. You best not look. You’ve put fear in his eyes before—once, when you crept closer cause you couldn’t help it, sniffing the air and asking confused-like, “brother, what?”

_Brother, what you doing here, smelling so good?_

_Brother, why you got my bulge out?_

And then that half-thought later, _oh best beloved, I’m gonna keep on questioning cause I ain’t in my pan no more and all I gotta do is get close enough to help you lie down._

Karkat held you back by your throat, every hackle up before you even got an understanding on what you wanted with him lying down. You froze cold, thinkpan floating off into space, all _shit, shit, what did I do? How pissed is he? Fuck, why ain’t he saying nothing?_

Karkat’s blade got a little bit of your blood he about tore out of your hive.

Your _very secluded_ hive, where your best friend would need to be trekking wilderness to get home, and skirting the shore more than once, and with this kind of smell rolling off of him and seadwellers in those waters, you got to the door first and he burst into the angriest motherfucking tears.

Told you later, when he done calmed the fuck down and got some of the slurry out of his system. _Couldn’t even fucking patch you up_. His little head nestled into his arms, hair shivering more than he seemed to. _I fucking cut you, Gamzee, and I couldn’t get close, I couldn’t take care of you, you would’ve just lost it again. I **couldn’t**._

You put your arms around him and just _shhh-shh-shhhooshed_ until your precious brother could look at you. _No harm done._ You could smell him clamoring to be under you and licking your flesh, scratch-tongued, slippery with his needy spill—wanting you again already, and your pupils dilated until the room shimmered.

Karkat has always been your sopor at its sweetest, Faygo-drenched, honey and licked lips—you were at least a little _confused_ first heat you spent with him, but every instinct was in place. And he taught you his breathless sugar crystal gasps and ancient savagery there again on the entryplane of your hive, fists in your hair and you studying between his legs. Taught you how territory feels in soft skin and cries of your name, and you learned it well enough that now your precious moirail makes a sound and you gotta rub yourself just a little.

You’re thinking you may need the ablution block again—but Karkat calls for you. “ _Gamzee_.”

And so you rise to your feet, smiling soft and gentle to soothe that humiliation Karkat is digging up from this, running a palm down the back of his neck from behind. Dark Carnival’s _awe_ , Karkat has turned from head to shoulders into solid rock and you wince for him. Even in the computer screen, his face’s reflection is screwed tight, punishing himself for his failure.

No need for that.

“Easy, my wicked little brother,” you murmur to him, taking a moment to just pet at him—slow and fond, every bit that you feel. Goddamn turtleneck sweaters? You ain’t never _seen_ anything so defensive. But he’s wearing your sign shirt tonight, worn-out collar dangling around his shoulders, neck on display, and you could pail him for access to such delicate skin and scattered freckles, the strong curve where it finds his jaw—no lie—but you stroke like a moirail, watch his eyes flutter closed, his eyebrows draw together until he looks miserable.

“Shh,” you tell him as the silence gets louder. You roll your palms slow where muscle meets bone, and _crack_ —vertebrae—Karkat’s head drops an inch, exposing more. You can’t help a little chirp—he shoots you a look over his shoulder that makes you grin, warm sentiment bubbling down in your belly. You scruff gently at that close-cropped neckfur, turning his chair to face you, easing down to your crouch. Low and nonthreatening. You can’t prevent your eyes dipping—there’s already a nice puddle of cherry red in your seat to clean up, gone through his pants. Look back up before he gets mad.

He stays calm enough, though, so you risk (cautiously and slow) bringing him close. Karkat whines as you pull your wheeled desk chair in, but doesn’t dispute. Just watches you half-lidded, panting as you stroke his neck, till you get settled between his knees and lay your head against a thigh. You’re rewarded for patience by Karkat leaning into your hand.

“You chilling?” His eyebrows knit and you get a defiant grunt. You chuckle. “Too chill to answer a brother, huh?”

“Never too chill to say fuck you,” Karkat offers. You chuckle. He doesn’t go ahead with explicating how ridiculous you are, just tells you with his eyes. You sift at his hair.

Prettiest fucking thing. His eyes are dilating right in front of yours. “…Motherfucker gonna ask?”

Karkat shows you fangs. “Ask _what_?”

You chuckle.

Then lean into him, chirping softly, repeatedly. Cause you’re unwilling to shoosh anymore, and Karkat only makes that token attempt of growling before a feverish nose presses into your shoulder and he puts arms around your neck, calm as you please.

His nook gives a terrific, noisy squelch as he moves. Karkat freezes and you have to scoop him up close before he can bolt, a flick of your hand disconnecting the strings of slime between his legs. You lay him out on the floor. He clings like static fuzz, all pretending not to notice how beautiful and burning he is. Growls to himself instead, until you palm his wet place—hell yeah, swollen nice and thick in your hand—which gets his legs to snap wider. Little sound he makes has you breathe hard, give his parts a squeeze and Karkat’s next cry is muffled, but all happiness. Scent comes thicker, fresh crimson is produced for your hand. Karkat’s hips hitch for your weight between those thighs—and he’s got hard thighs, packed with muscle enough that you think of them as weapons, as _honor_ —watch as he spreads them for you.

Your bulge is ready to explode. You unzip him with a smile, hum sympathetically at his exposed bulge’s hysterics, the steady waves of red from his nook. Both so hard at work. You slide a claw into his nestlespace straight away and Karkat moans cute as shit, higher as you fuck him a little on the one finger. His hand cups on yours. You tease him to where he’s keening, then pluck your finger free, admire the aroused nook in overflow. You bend down and fit your mouth to him.  
  
He tastes so fucking sugar sweet. _Listen_ to him crying out—feel him rocking into your lips and lapping tongue, smell the heat scent as his touch scalds you. Your bulge calms as you nuzzle on into the swollen space and purr for him, your instincts agreeing you may suck on his candied little nook all you want. Bite his thigh in between, because you can get him to orgasm for _nothing_.

He had to pull your hand lower himself, cause you hadn’t dared. That was his second heat. You felt your way in and witnessed in awe as he gasped and slicked sacrament all down your wrist. You still love on his bulge some too, giving it little squeezes when Karkat’s insides flirt with your tongue, but it’s his nook that gets you riled up and it’s his nook that you’re gonna spend this week in use of. Karkat ain’t fucking complaining.

No, you have your Karkat shaking and chirring so bad he ain’t moving for nothing by the time you sit up. Had him three orgasms down there, so ready for your tongue. And you got every minute of thighs atremble, spreading and trying to hug you at once, hands in your hair, on your horns, petting you shiver-fingered and pleading, him choking on your name as you gave him more. You survey your work, licking him from your lips thoroughly before—mouth this time—you have yourself warm, slow kisses. Your motherfucking _best_ reward, as you sweep that full, tender lower lip into your mouth and suck softly, open-mouthed, your tongue visiting his, flushed mischief. He’s too high to do a damn thing about it. Kisses back dreamily, burbling in confusion.

You kiss awhile, till you’re growling and palming yourself, and then, because his nook clearly ain’t done tonight; he’s gotten himself good and hot, you bend back down to give him sex by your tongue. Messiahs, he _screams_ when you touch him. Writhing good now, warmed up for more, needing your hands to steady his hips and help him keep his nook under your mouth. And you keep right on doing that precious little syrup-coated inside, nursing on him until Karkat nuzzles you away. Mutters nonsense at you, closing his legs and rolling over, already dozing.

Poor exhausted little motherfucker. Heat does hit him hard.

Your pity aches his way like broken bones, as you settle extra comfy him in the pile. Nest him with lots of pillows and soft things in for him to ruin with his heatslick, and comfort him while his body winds itself up again. You pet back sweaty hair, lay a kiss on his feverish brow, and walk away.

In the ablution block, your bulge thrashes out as soon as your pants drop—pump your palms over it, both hands for sure, fast as you can, get it done cause your globes gonna bust if you don’t. Bite your lip, forehead pressed to cool ablution block tile, squeezing down as your veins about pop, squeezing _down_ as your thinkpan plays you warm thighs and stomach muscles in writhe and Karkat’s head thrown back to clenched teeth and thorax-deep groans. Your globes clench in appreciation, draw up, and you take the release as soon as it’s an option. Try not to moan his name too loud.

Ever since Karkat let you see to his parts gone helpless from heat, you spend your pleasure this way. The memories of on your floor, turned his miracle color to the ears, parting those lips to pant up sharp warrior sounds, and the pleasure melting his face to the prettiest rapture, like he ain’t even know _slightly_ which way is up with you giving him attention. You imagine him under and against you, bearing your sin with every wave of indigo shot out, your scent invading his sticky-sweet pheromone.

You empty your globes and strain a while after, high on the thought.

When you join him in the pile, Karkat wakes enough to whine at you and pushes a little—it ain’t quite natural, keeping this close in heat for what isn’t a mate. Not for him. You gently insist, of course, bring him to your chest and nuzzle until his natural post-coital exhaustion runs its course.

He’ll wake you when he needs it again. For now, this is _Karkat_ , this is unavoidable—because since first he cried and clung and showed you how he could spill so bright, you ain’t looked on him like a moirail does. Don’t think you ever will again, messiahs help you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Ad Hoc and Grub Cage are still giving me a lot of trouble. Just so you know, I am working on them properly and there's enough written that eventually, regular updates will be a thing again, but for now, have some semi-pale fluff to tide you over.
> 
> Also, there's more pailing. I know what you lot are here for.

By the weekend, your little love still has need of you, and he’s a lot more vocal about it.   
  
“This your spot, my sweetest brother?”   
  
“ _Fuck_ —that’s, f-fuck yes, Gamzee—!”  
  
You do it with fingers, one by one candy coating on his orgasm, the other hand stroking an overheated cheek as he moans for comfort. His instincts embolden quick as your lust—spread thighs rocking over your lap, or on hands and knees lavishing this decadent little feast to your mouth, moaning each time you make a meal of him. He enthralls your appetite, all plump and sizzling hot where he’s meant for his lover.

And what he calls _treason_ , would rather make himself sick with globestone than see to, he will mate on once you treat him right. When he’s good and aroused from fucking you, you guide his livid little bulge to his urgency, coaxing Karkat to pamper himself. Fucks up past his nook-lips and he whimpers at you, precious and satisfied and completely out of his pan. Ain’t got the first clue what he’s mating with, just wants you to know he likes it.

This can’t begin to atone for your sin, you know. You ain’t once been able leave his bulge in for the spilling; you fuck his gluttony on some part of you instead when he’s bloomed bright on orgasm. But you will let him go, won’t you, once he’s understanding how to give his own nook play? If you can make his little mating parts fall in love, there won’t be no flushed-pale ache anymore, because Karkat will give his heat to his own bulge, safe as could be. And you picture that, you swallow, and inevitably, you then see if yours can’t make him scream louder, squeeze tighter, rock his hips in want of the better mate.   
  
It’s one such venture after lunch—he’s just been fed his bulge a good while—and you lift him, let him curl around your shoulders while your mouth seats tight at his need. His ass flexes greedy into your palms, and then Karkat rides your tongue.

The indulgence of his molten honey with intrusion, thrusting for your pleasure like a motherfucking buffet and wailing with ecstasy—fuck, he’s _happy_. You purr so hard. Savor him, let him tongue-fuck his own nook soaking wet before you pin his sugar to your mouth and allow tightening silk and overheated climax to seduce you stupid. He rides your face again after he’s had one treat, soft and sticky and mouthing your horns. Break him again, and you lower Karkat to your lap to pet on. He moans up—always tries so hard to show you he’s having it good, your sugargrub. Between his splayed legs, his nook is pulsing so pretty, trembling around an orgasm.

And you wonder how many strokes that might be, how long spent in rut with his tender little nestlespace before he even _noticed_ what he was fucking? Karkat moans deafeningly, nook parted wide to submit itself. It’s flushed so red and fat for the taking. He’s getting slurry all over you.

Your sheath goes very, very tight.

That first heat, you remember Karkat in tears. “ _Don’t_ ” and “ _please_ ” and “ _with a matesprit_ ” and you told him “ _just hands, just fingers alone, hush, hush, hush, best beloved_ ,” and this ain’t nothing but one more temptation you won’t turn into sin, cause you got enough weighing on you.

Kiss him instead, frustrated and desperate, full of tongue and fully flushed and Karkat is so out of it, he clearly doesn’t know who he’s under, or he wouldn’t suck your tongue and purr and knot fingers in your hair. Arches his back, showing you his nook again—makes the loneliest little sound to your back. You slam the ablution trap door.

Snarl the whole time, a hand to your mouth, trying to still feel him kissing you. Your bulge jerks with violence, slapping at your knuckles in full thrash, and the pain can’t come close to—Karkat rutting on your tongue and— You jam your claws in the wall. And you make a motherfucking disorder, gouging through anything you’re in reach of, shooting a long while, all over yourself and the tiles and the motherfucking sink, and you _ain’t_ in a cleaning mood. Glare at the ceiling. Karkat started chirping your name a good few minutes ago, wanting his heatmate.

And he shall have you.

You return to him in a vengeance, force his thighs to their full spread, and crush between them. Take your motherfucking right, eat him out so thoroughly that he ain’t having another orgasm for a _good while_. He screams hoarse and then you just make him shake and choke up rasping purrs while you hold his nook occupied. When you’re calmed from how slick he stays and how desperately he presses his hips into you, you finally deprive him of your tongue.

Best beloved is reaching for you. The ringing in your ears dims.

You let him tug you down, a purr aching its way out of your chest as you sink into his bare shoulder—must have torn his shirt from him some time tonight—breathe his Karkat-warmth, and you finally can settle just enough to be in your pan. It’s paradise, a relief you can’t get no other way, when he holds you.

Don’t last too long either, before he squirms. You sigh.

“Gamzee,” Karkat grunts. “Fuck. Heavy. Ow.” He kicks you gently in the leg. “My whole side is going to sleep, you fucker.” You risk a snore; Karkat nips your ear. “Get _up_ , you unconvincing asshole. You are not sleeping on the floor.” He breaks off with a cough—aww hell. You grunt. Gotta relent. Scoop him up and carefully heave the both of you upright. Karkat hisses and grabs at you. “I can _walk_!”

“Ain’t like I’m gonna drop you,” you grin at him. All scowling, Karkat still huddles to your chest given a moment, pushing a horn against you all plaintive like. He can drive you to all insanity; that’ll still be the _cutest_ fucking thing. You’ll give his horns some love in just a second, get your piteous cuddle on, but first your best beloved has been producing fucking glorious amounts of cum, and he’ll be needing a drink.

Karkat grumbles when you set him down, under his breath and mutinous. You haul the water jug up and push the glass to your sweetest sugargrub. Face he makes suggests poison.

“Throat hurts,” he mutters, nudging the glass out of the way so he can lean up and push one overheated cheek to yours. You hum sympathetically—he’s been screaming a hell of a lot under you. “Just want the pile. And you.” Purrs at you too, spoiled as he is. “ _Now_.”

“But a brother’s gotta drink?” Karkat tries growling and you give his horn a little tug to hitch his breath, so’s you can ease him back to his seat without a fight. “Ain’t gonna feel no kind of better if you don’t,” you remind him. “Gonna feel like shit, all coughing and dizzy.” Karkat’s expression suggests he wants to fight you on it, so you lean down, framing the glass with your big hands, grinning into his face. “Come on, it’s piling straight away when you get your drink on. Won’t make you take but one glass if you don’t like it.”

“That,” Karkat says, voice acid, “Is a motherfucking crock.” He pointedly eyes the jug.

You resort to wheedling. “But best friend, I ain’t feel right, not taking care of your health as best I know…”

With a snarl to let you know this is all his idea, your little moirail snatches the glass—winces at the first sip and you croon, cup the side of his neck and rub a little to distract him. His throat works, eyes closing, lips parting with a groan that means you got the jug all ready, pouring him another that he’s a lot quicker to guzzle down. You gotta coax him a little for the fourth one and then he snaps at you that he’s sloshing already, but lets you pour him half a fifth to sip on while you carry him back upstairs to the pile. You take most extra infinite care with your sugargrub, easing him down, cocooning him in your belongings while you hunker down open-legged for him to snuggle up—does so immediately, your little love—lays his head on your chest possessively.

You sigh in purest appreciation.

You’re thinking he’s after some quality pale while his mating parts aren’t in charge, and you ain’t gonna turn a brother down for comfort. _Ain’t_ gonna shoosh him either, but you pet back his hair, take his horns and go at them slow and easy, draw his breathing deep, all hot gasps spilled over your skin. Your best beloved moans like you’re in his nook again, head arched back for your hands until you coax him to rest and let you do all the work. His mouth presses lazy to your chest, faint pale kissing. “Gamzee, _ahh_ …”

“What’s on your mind, Karbro?” You murmur to him. “Some wicked thoughts going on up in there?” Karkat chews his lip a moment—you croon unhappily. If he’s wanting a sting, you’d prefer your teeth teasing such a sweet, tender little mouth. Could nip on his lips all night long. And then he bites it out, low, “I’m just looking forward to this shit being _over_.”

Your fingers falter.

“…Yeah?”

“Fucking yeah,” he shuffles nearer. “I miss you.” Your stomach lurches. You don’t say anything, glide your thumbs back and forth, your jaw hurting. Must be gritting your fangs. “I hate this,” Karkat mumbles. “You blur out and you’re just this thing, this fucking—I want to be at your side again, fuck, I can’t wait for it to _stop_.” Tries to growl even, and can’t, precious thing; you’re pulling his legs out from under him with every pet at his horns.

Truth is, his scent is beginning to ease. Only a day or two more, by your reckoning, that he’ll need care. You could tell him that. Karkat props his bony chin on your chest as he eyes you.

“You deserve so much better than this,” he says.

You cup a palm up to his warm cheek. “Brother,” you assure him softly. “Ain’t no thing. Happy to help a friend what needs me.” Karkat looks unsatisfied—you go for the hornbases, pinch them until he’s blinking in wonder. “If it’s heatmate—“

“ _What?_ ”

He about topples out of your lap. You sweep a leg around him so he can’t drop out of the pile altogether—it’s up on a raised platform you use for your one-wheel device and hurts like hell if you take a tumble—your fingers skid off his horns and bundle him back in. You’re laughing now, and Karkat socks you one in the shoulder— _ow_ —snapping, “Jegus, I use the term _one time_ when I’m bitching out the feculent shittastrophe that is my life and— Goddammit, fuck you, Makara! You’re not my.” His mouth twists.

“Heatmate?” You fill in, which makes him growl. You pap his headfluff. “Aww, but best friend—“

“But fucking _nothing_!” Karkat bellows, voice crackling with anger. “Gamzee, you’re my goddamn moirail, and regardless of whether—” He’s so worked up that you can’t stop laughing. You just kiss into his hair and Karkat snarls, punches you again. “You’re not a goddamn _pailing device!_ ” He swallows, cringing. “Without honor—Fuck. Oh _fuck_.”

You hum, splaying fingers down his back. Ain’t too worried he’ll run off, but you like to be careful. “But best friend, my honor is happy right where the fuck it is?” Karkat growls furiously into your throat. You try again. “When you’re vulnerable and needing, I look after you. That’s how it goes, moirail mine, so heatmate ain’t no insult.” You kiss a tapered ear just a little, light enough to keep it pale. “It’s just getting my Karkat monopoly squared away all thorough-like.”

“Oh my god,” Karkat remarks, almost calmly. “You’re insane.”

Insane you may be, but best he don’t go too long without, dripping through your pants like this. You’ll let him cling to his palelove until his head fogs, though. You owe him that. You tug him a little closer. Insist, softly, “Bro, I’m _happy_ with you _._ ”

Karkat sighs. Cups heated little palms at your jaw and tilts you to look at him. You smile when you do. Hard not to, it being your Karkat.

“If it gets to be too much,” Karkat murmurs, soft as the tiding of a storm. “ _Don’t_ pity me, okay? You can make me stop. You damn well have to.”

“Ain’t nothing—” you tell him simply, turning to give one of those precious miracle hands a kiss. “—that’s too motherfucking much for me.” His brow creases and you concede gently, “And if it starts looking otherwise, I’ll end it before it turns to mischief. It’s alright, miracle brother.” You kiss his lips too briefly for him to feel the flush in it. “I got it square.”

When his eyes drift open, they’ve gone glassy. There’s a broken sound in his throat. “ _Gamzee?_ ”

“Peace, little miracle,” you purr to him, shifting the pile aside to take him up with you. Karkat clutches at you all little and wanting. You nudge your way between squirming legs and almost laugh, him slicking so hard when you’ve pressed him down. “Calm yourself, ain’t nothing gonna happen you don’t like. You’re getting the urge?” You lave his folds with tongue gentle and Karkat’s nook parts open like a curtain, lets you trace the familiar heat and push within. Karkat takes your horns. And fuck if it don’t feel good for you to nurse on his happy little nook with his hands telling you how much he’s at home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if I was not getting the crappiest writer's block imaginable, I would be doing drone season, but as it is, I am just trying to get back in the habit of updates. This chapter isn't as good as I would like, but the next couple are a lot better, so don't give up yet.

After, you reel out of the ablution block light-headed from so much ‘touching up your paints’—and behold beautiful temptation is waiting for you, all spilled on the floor. Got no more fight left in his little pudged up mating parts, so they just pool his color where you left him. Tremor _just_ below the skin, muscles all wrenched tight—he’s panting your name up in honey-drip fragments. Fuck if Karkat ain’t wicked pretty when he’s a mess.   
  
You lean against the wall since all your blood just fled south. “Feel mighty good if your bulge tucks in there, brother.”   
  
“That’s stupid.” Arches as he looks at you, your sweetest sugargrub. His growl softens on the start of a beguiling purr. “Come here?”   
  
If you actually _could_ keep your hands off of him, you’d be amazed.   
  
Karkat snaps taut under your mouth, muscles all in ripple, hangs there like a swollen sail, straining for orgasm—starts _whining_. He should know better than that. Gonna get himself mauled, acting that cute. You get your mouth real tight and your best beloved thrusts for you to devour until he’s fucking shamelessly on your kisses. You hike his hips up to get his attention, hold his gaze as you feed that sugar-sweet embrace with tongue. Purr thick and low to his sweet shaking, lap deeper, and you know you have him when his mouth closes. The moan goes inward and satisfied. He bursts again, ripe fruit, sugar to draw you in. Lost in his carnival.   
  
You push his thighs wider, and suck fast on his swelling folds, tongue between them, ordering him to pleasure. Karkat pulses hips at you, muscles gripping hard, a sound like a sob in his throat. “Gamzee—“ Kiss his little sweet throb rougher. His nestlespace feeds you nectar, and you ain’t stopping. “—Bulge.” You clutch that sticky mess of him and stroke it slow while your tongue grinds his nook up. His face goes slack.   
  
You both know what happens when you put him to orgasm so fast again. How deep it goes, until his stomach muscles quiver and convulse in desperation, those guttural, harsh cries, Karkat’s straining against your weight like solid steel. It’ll leave him blushed and weeping slow pleasure from that creamy, smeared confection he calls a nook—you’ll be in the ablution block again.   
  
He chokes out something about deeper, and you have to chuckle because your tongue is so far up him you ain’t gonna taste nothing but sugar for weeks. Karkat clamps on you anyway, and mind you, you know it’s his mouth running away with him, but it’s still cute as hell when he chokes that he’ll turn inside out. Whines that it’s all your fault too.   
  
Then his babble goes off in a brand new direction.   
  
Vibrations of him echo like a clap of thunder set off too close— _put your bulge, put your bulge_ —and your globes swallow down the howl of lust with a big, angry pulse that means—messiahs, it means your control just frayed to a thread. Your sheath snaps wide so you growing sex can struggle free. “Oh _shit_ ,” you groan, and rush a hand down there to hold it in.   
  
It’s Karkat—and you know that—but what roars at you doesn’t care.   
  
Because this little lowblooded prize needs to taste you to his _throat_ while he mates. Someone’s growling up a thunderstorm. You yank his hips under yours, because you got need to thrust, to carve up deep into him. Each time you lunge between those gorgeous legs, put it fully in, until he can’t contain his belly from drinking your sweet. You dare any other troll to motherfucking resist the natural order.   
  
“Fuck—“ you gasp, and just barely still yourself. “Fuck, _bro_ , I’m sorry—“   
  
Karkat has gone bright red, staring at your hand shoved down the front of your pants. Your zipper gets stuck. You wrench it off. Let the lowblood heatnook look as every inch spills free, go right ahead get his insides hotter and wetter for what’s coming all ridged and sucker-bellied. You lean back, pulse it out. Your palms are flooded with indigo slick as you stroke. Won’t be no kind of fight to slide your bulge in him.   
  
Opportunistic kind of shit, huh? Your suckers are popping and connecting down his wrist, his forearm, feeling along, searching for something to crawl into. You press your lips to his temple, try not to bite, suckers collecting and restraining sugargrub’s tiny hands. His warmth there makes something electric happen behind your eyes. Can’t even imagine him burning your bulge all up between his legs, what that would do to you—do to _him_. You can’t breathe at all.   
  
Karkat croaks your name-prayer, soft, “ _Gamzee_.”   
  
“I need you,” you hiss into his hair. That crunch was your claws going through the floor. Your growl reverberates in your skull. You feel him struggle—he’s trying to hold you. Your head bows. “Need you. Need—sorry, need it. Get me strong, brother. Get me strong enough to fight this, Karkat, _please_.”   
  
All you’re thinking is that you haven’t pinned his hands. He can get to your horns. You do not anticipate the way pheromone smell intensifies—sharp spike at the peak of his hips when he rocks upwards, nook presented. You growl deep. You _need_ to get off him. Everything that ain’t in love with him knows Karkat’s helpless to stop you.   
  
He does it _again_. Holds your gaze, shows you he’s good and wet. Your bulge writhes angrily in your grip. “It’s okay,” Karkat splutters as you gasp for air you can’t get. “You don’t need paint your damn face again, okay? I get it. Just make sure...” He swallows. Stares at your bulge.   
  
Can’t say it, but you still comprehend it. Yes. Messiahs, yes; you’ll do his fuck gentle. Keep him busy until he’s about popped with slurry, get his voice ringing. Make the sin go down easy. Karkat’s still saying something.   
  
He says “don’t do it nicely.”   
  
He’s got legs spread for you and a wet place what needs entering and his pheromones knifing your throat. _Don’t do it nicely._ You stare at him. His mouth keeps moving. “Don’t make it weird. I can’t pityfuck my moirail.”   
  
Can’t is an _awful_ strong word and you will hold his wrists and teach him how much he likes having flushed bulge plunged inside, watch him lose to his heat and get to mating like he was made for.   
  
You must hit the floor pretty hard cause there’s a real big crack of sound when you scramble off of him. Don’t feel it too well. As an afterthought, you pop your hand over his mouth. Little motherfucker ain’t too happy about that, but you’re still halfway to making good on your blood’s legacy and if he enflames your bulge again, you’re done for. Karkat—he gives another disgruntled _mrrh_ and squirms. You push him flat. Your bulge is tying itself in knots and— _and he just asked you to_ —messiahs.   
  
You ain’t got it in you.   
  
Your strength ain’t good enough either, not to keep your beloved down before he’s got hands on your face. His feverish fingers wipe salt from your eyelids and you’re fit to burst with this awful want that don’t belong here, with Karkat hushing and touching you with those soft, pale kisses of his. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, shhh. It’s my fault. You didn’t do anything, I shouldn’t have, _please_ don’t cry.”   
  
“Ain’t ever going down that way, best friend,” you groan at him and he nods, pushes his forehead to yours, all grimaced up in pain.   
  
“God no. I won’t ever ask again.” His voice is so sincere it’s holy law. “I thought I was helping, or I wouldn’t have—Gamzee, I swear, I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”   
  
Yeah, you’re the one getting all cut up, aren’t you?   
  
You take his hands before he can fumble one more trembling shoosh down your jaw and hold his gaze. “Get your listen on.” He swallows and nods. You take care not to break his wrists when you pin those hands down and curl your growl low, right at his throat. “You don’t EVER posture you’d want your red quadrant rough on you again, _feel me_?” Your chest heaves. “It’s _gonna_ be nice, you’re gonna _like it_. It goes slow and tender, little love, as you’re fully _owed_. COMPREHEND THAT.”   
  
Karkat flinches. “It’s—it’s just heat. Okay? It doesn’t mean anything. It’s alright—”  
  
You're not letting him talk. “You _ain’t_ something as is only precious to me _part-time_ , motherfucker.” He’s going a little red again and his eyes dart. You strive to make it clear to him. “You get every hour of mine you ask for—and I do not motherfucking care how long you play at me being your heatmate, brother dearest, because I got no shortage of time for you. But you do not get a second, not _half a second_ , when you ain’t the reddest center of my pity, and when you ain’t touched like you’re mine to treasure.”   
  
Karkat goes perfectly still. “Gamzee?” He shoots you one of those hopeless little smiles you get when he’s scared out of his pan and don’t know what else to do no more. “You’re sounding kind of? I swear to god if you try to vacillate _now_...” His hand chops at the air by your neck, half-hearted.   
  
Brother always does make you laugh. “…Nah, don’t do that.” He smiles back, wary, and you have to close your eyes. Your voice don’t shake, though; just tries to stick on the way out. “I ain’t asking you to choose between diamonds or hearts, on account of how I have always treated you as my flushmate, and nothing else.”   
  
Saying it feels exactly how you imagined, except in your thinkpan you kinda always get to the pail afterwards and you ain’t so much thinking of that now.   
  
In the span of thirty seconds that follows, you regret opening your mouth. Ain’t like you really expected him to swoon or nothing—but your brother looks like you just up and hit him. Your guts twist to a knot. You ain’t reaching for him for no reason but to offer contact—but it gets slapped away.   
  
“ _No_.” And Karkat shoves his little mouth to yours, startling you again, enough that he gets his way. Hard kiss, and a momentary one, then he’s breathing up, pleading. “You _are_ my diamond.” Leans up again, mouth like a crutch, assuring you broken will feel good together. “I pity you so much, you stupid clown, I will always pity you, you’re so—“   
  
He’s got sin-made lips to silence himself, soft and supple as his swollen little nook below, spluttering reminders of its slickness. You can’t help but press back, pulling him closer into you, because you love him.   
  
And this? Him against you and precious and clinging? It will _never_ feel pale. You stupid fucking fool, you beheld and were blinded by the glory in him. Just had to claim him before you ever knew mating fondness for what it was, didn’t you, and you snatched the first quadrant you saw. Now you feel Karkat’s purr vibrate in plea, a coo spilled into his sweet mouth, head tilting closer—and you deepen the kiss, firmly out of the territory of pale. Slide Karkat your tongue and it’s gentle worship you feed in. He jerks back, but you purr to yourself like it’s real and plunder him like your matesprit wants you back.   
  
“It was you,” Karkat gasps—you just haul him firmly against your lips. Still he splutters. “You, before. You _shit_ head, you were kissing—“ Fist digs into your shoulder, but you are stronger and it’s effortless to act like your thinkpan’s more fucked up than it is. Funny how he’s in heat, and you’re the one who needs him so bad. He gasps up into your tongue, torso pressing up bold to yours. A thigh rubs against your hip, and there’s your warning—Karkat’s hands go in your hair, and he returns the press of your lips and tongue.   
  
You moan so hard you think it’ll shatter him.   
  
He’s driven back down as you kiss and kiss with all this pent-up hunger, growling soft to Karkat’s shaky, nervous purrs, bearing into him like a waterfall, your bulge feeling him up as you taste his tongue. You soak Karkat’s mouth with your taste, and under your hands—he’s hitching up from below, muscles bunching. You expect it’s fear.   
  
His mouth spills—“oh, oh, _oh god_ —“ And he’s jumping his hips, he’s got a look of horror and exquisite bliss confused around the eyes, and he is spasming streams of red sugar pleasure from his depth. You stare all fascinated between his legs until you understand, then have Karkat’s mouth again fast, fuck your tongue to him and cradle his trembling while he fights his way through. Other hand keeps your bulge at bay, and he gets you messy with his sugar-coating.   
  
He ain’t stopping. Before you sucked him to spasms trying to get those stubborn globes off and now he’s having it heavy and slow and serious in his mating parts and he’s doing it from having your flushed kiss. His fangs bump yours as he cries out into your mouth with need, swallowing on your skin, making himself clear, so fuck his quadrants and _fuck_ the rules.   
  
He’s supposed to be yours. He’s supposed to be _claimed_.   
  
…And when that claim withers away with his heat?   
  
You choke when Karkat gives his hips these little rocks against you, making it better, rewarding himself with pressure on his pulsing sex. Sweetest little touches. Those plump lips suck your skin and then heave out fresh juice. You gently draw a hand to his hips, let Karkat get used to the touch before you press him to yourself and rub up slow and sinuous. Not your bulge, it’s just friction—Karkat’s jaw drops.   
  
“Ain’t asking you to change nothing,” you point out to him, voice rumbling low. “But if you want if from your heatmate, be aware he’s gonna do it nice.”   
  
“Hell,” Karkat chokes. “This isn’t—too bad.” His smile is sickly and desperate. Bends his head lower and keens, nook braced to you as you please it. Little thing is trying to mate—he lifts his sweet space up and you rub your bulge length on his slick, intentional and firm. Feel that cherry sweet spasm. He hides his entrance on your belly anew and pants. You pet his ass while he writhes.   
  
“Settle,” you tell him, the words syrupy with affection. “You’ll have it. Lean yourself back for me, brother, let me look on you spilling.”   
  
Karkat glares, redder by the minute—you cup his face, kiss up and down his lips, help him.   
  
“Gamzee?” He gasps as you ease him down, all unsettled. Ain’t never been all the way there, has he, when you touched him like this? But fuck’s sake, he doesn’t even seem to remember he wanted to stop. Those little hips are going and going and its time a bulge wore the inside of him out for that.   
  
“Mine,” you growl back sternly and _that_ is what melts him into your hands.   
  
To the end of his heat, to the end of time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Almost done with this fic, which will honestly be nice. I want to get back to Ad Hoc, and this fic will not leave me alone long enough for me to get shit done with it.
> 
> Enjoy your smut, guys!

Karkat’s nook ends up displayed on your abdomen. He relaxes slow for your eyes, lets his thighs open their full spread, leans back against yours. He’s leaking his slurry down your ribs, his bulge wrapping on itself, yours rubbing up his shoulders and neck cause he’s warm like every happy hell—he shivers, mouth open, doesn’t pull away. His nook has resumed its twitching all politely for your gaze. You’re not bothering to look like this don’t affect you.   
  
“Best beloved, you got the most beautiful color,” you breathe while you fit your finger for about the hundredth time in his need. Jiggle it a little aggressively. His insides fuck tight as a vice. Karkat makes shivery, surprised sounds, like he didn’t remember getting touched inside, but more likely, you’ve never tugged on him like this, getting salty in his sweet space. That’ll need changing. You ain’t never put more than one finger in him. He winces a little, taking deep breaths, and then begins to trickle his crimson down your wrist. You pump his nestlespace for him, jiggling rough as he rocks his need up to the knuckles.   
  
“Good?” You murmur and he nods, pulls your hand close and works on it with lip between his teeth. You watch the care fondly, and give some of the gentle petting his pleasure likes.   
  
Squeezes inward too, trying to suck a partner to him. You chuckle as he grinds on you, looking for more instinctively. Your second finger pets its way inside his wet silk heat, pulls again, in sync. Karkat turns sideways with a grunt, grabs onto one of your legs, and clings so you can’t see how much he likes it. You start spreading your fingers against his clench. You ain’t got time to stretch him too good, misfortune being what it is; not with your bulge so urgent. You end up finding where it’s sweet and finger it until he throbs his folds wide and gives you his orgasm. Rests his cheek on your thigh, mouth open and dripping cries as he pulses out a pool of slick. Your bulge seeks the space between his lips. His dazed kisses on your sex feel better than sin, and you watch him tremble from cumming, pretty and surrendered.   
  
The flutters start gasping open, spreading to get all his crimson out. You sit up slow—Karkat mouths your bulge one last time, then lets you hold him. No need to open his legs, you just align your hips and purr. Sugargrub hyperventilates, shaking violently as you kiss him, warm nook slurping with hunger your bulgetip draws to the entrance. The greeting is a brief one—it rubs at his folds and Karkat coos. The sound is friendly. The orgasm contractions spread him over and over for your perusal, and instinct takes over. Your bulge squirms directly into its desire, breaching your sweetest motherfucker in a heartbeat.   
  
Karkat swears as your suckers clamp at the soft flesh of his groin, but you’re securely in his nestlespace now, and gather your mate to you. Maybe four ridges in before it’s genuinely caught at his tight entrance—and his hot insides stick in your suckers and get your globes throbbing harder. Your bulge crawls up until there’s a gorgeous little _pop_ of his folds taking it in. You like that. Your ridges go _pop-a-pop-pop_ at the lips of his nook as your bulge grows more insistent, confident that this is a mating entrance and pushing ridges through the squeeze aggressively. Karkat jolts, but there ain’t nowhere for him to go, you in him already and locked tight to the slick warmth of his passage. Between your suckers’ strong grip, and your ridges curved towards you, engineered, you guess, to catch on his folds if he tried to squirm away or fight, he’ll need to mate you to completion. You can’t say how it feels to him, but you’re already in bliss.   
  
Grinding you about to dust with choking prudishness past the loved-up entrance of his sex, though; sugargrub is _tight_. You grit your teeth, push deeper. His newest breach compresses you so hard your suckers attach whether you will or not, plundering and pleasuring on their way and you can’t stop groaning with desperation for deeper. Can he bear it? Belly is beginning to show you stuffing him, groin most definitely; his little entryway swollen like a bell, drawing your bulge straight into thick and sweet and mindless, prepared to be savaged, and stuffed too taut to move. You pet where he’s taking it inside, feel how tight and smooth it’s making him, the way he outlines your ridges with his skin, from entrance to the base of his belly, where he starts to dip deeper in. Such a pretty troll, and your bulge is on fire with the pleasure of him inside.   
  
“I motherfucking need you,” you think you gasp, curling around him as you rock inside. “I ain’t gonna make it, fuck you’re tight—“   
  
“Shut up,” Karkat breathes back to you, paps your cheek, another panicked cry wrenched out of him when you take his space just a little further. You mouth his horn, make him ease his crush around you. Your hungry bulge wriggles deeper in this blissful embrace. “Sh-shut up, don’t talk, this is hard enough, _fuck_ , you’re gonna rip through my goddamn stomach—“  
  
“Bear with me, sugargrub, you’re doing so perfect. Just a little sore is all, it’s gonna ease— _oh fuck_ —” Restraint and slow and him being hot tight torture, and Karkat sounds like it is already, crying out with every squirm. Feels like you’re killing each other. But you invade him until getting stuffed has swelled his whole spiral nook up to the top of his belly, got him looking so shockingly huge, your little sugargrub, full of you and willing, legs open to more. He pants, wrecked and wet, braced to your groin, splayed legs open on your waist, entrance provided to every rut.   
  
His eyes hold every secret—needs you for heat, got your bulge invading him to his sexy little brim, can’t get it out, can’t resist. His nook will be your teacher, and you will mate the fear from him.   
  
“My motherfucking flushmate,” you say softly, and steal a kiss, cupping his precious face between your palms. You feel around with bulge and tongue together while Karkat moans, trembling around you. “I pity you to Mirth’s end, little love. Now _bear it_.”   
  
The first pleasure-stroke—not the entry, certainly not the extraction that makes space for thrusting (Karkat actually went white, feeling your ridges on their way out), but the first motion of _genuine intercourse_ between Karkat’s legs makes the little troll howl, head thrown back, nook clutching on you in adoration. Fingers vice your horns, you slide forever, so easy, rock his hips their first fuck. You see stars. The knowledge of him puts a whole constellation before your eyes, your bulge all but numb with delight. Pull again. He screams anew, caressing you helplessly, like you didn’t really know nook could.   
  
You growl so deep as Karkat gives pleasure down your length, little thing driving starlight through your skin and lust to your already-busting globes, desperation to feel that sweet suck on your sex again and again _and again, how can it feel so good—?_   
  
The next few thrusts disorient your sugargrub so utterly the little troll’s features go slack. “Gam—“ His legs cannot possibly part any wider. “Gamz—sh… shiiit, I—I—“ He is starting to chirr, to trill, to make sounds you ain’t ever heard before. Best beloved finally has a bulge to sing for. You are finding your rhythm with his song. Suckers connect when you slow at the apex of your thrust, then smacking away as you pull back, make his hips thrust too hard, pleading for the suction again—it rubs ridges to his entrance right at your _fattest_ swell, makes him spasm, must hurt, feels so good for you that you shake, and he won’t stop. You pet his hair as he arches against you, push up and in, out and again, wet sounds of his heatfuck accompanying your intermingled, noisy mating cries.   
  
You don’t pail for very long before he goes limp. You take his bulge and stroke, so satisfied with all his little flutters inside, his near silent pleasure-cry, nook jolting as your suckers squirm and rearrange in him over and over with excitement. He can’t pulse with you swelled up tight in there, so he dances with the rest of him, straining and thrashing. Muffles his screams against your skin, unloading so much sticky red around you, and then just jerking his hips shallowly, having aftershocks, whimpering with them. _Now_ you withdraw, to see what has been wrought. Sugargrub’s legs stay wide to show off.   
  
Back of your thinkpan goes white and numb, you trace with your thumb, proving it’s real, you did that. He twitches like mad where you touch, heaving for breath and starting to whimper. His slobbering entrance is exposed and much widened, folds gaping, evident, a troll freshly mated to one of your bloodsize, held aloft in supplication. It’s gorgeous, and you want much more done to that nestlespace, but you cup the softness of his face, kiss his lips as he gasps. “If you want again—“ He nods so fast. Your heart swells any bigger, it’s busting your ribs, and you let go of your hungry bulge.   
  
You slither into his sugar spill so slick with his fluids—and him so relaxed by the orgasm crashing around in here—that you slap into his body harder than you meant—connect stupid and gasping. Karkat jolts alive. Your suckers clutch down hard as he pushes his hips at you helplessly. He’s spreading his sex. You flush with pride, begin the crawl into what new depths he just spasmed apart, knowing it’s yours, that you want it touched and pitied and broken in, kissing down his warm throat as you mate into him. Karkat moans and dangles from your arms, no longer in distress, but relaxing utterly to your questing length, and the harder thrusts. Gentle must be relative. So it’s deep and steady impact, fucking his tight nook such as makes his belly bounce while he’s relaxed to the push pull of ridge and girth, insides yielded in surrender, and hell, he ain’t gonna bite his lip while you’re in him. _Fuck_ that.   
  
You nuzzle his jaw in the half-quiet—“sugargrub, I need to know your feeling. Open that mouth up”—until he makes the motherfucking **BEST** sound you’ve ever lent auricular to. So gorgeous he slicks himself up to hear—turns him bright red and messiahs, you gasp, grind so deep up into his nook you have to thrash a little for him, reeling from pleasure. “More,” you’re begging him, kissing and tugging and nipping—anything to keep those lips apart. “More, lemme hear you, give it all you got—“ No more shoosh, get loud, go wild; flush for me, my only beloved—you drive into him and feed from mating cry after mating cry with your bulge stuffed between his legs.   
  
When another orgasm arrives in his miracle belly, he gets playful with its relief, rocking while his nook throbs on you heavily. You thrust slower, his captive audience until he’s jolting again with those aftershocks, staring up at you incredulously as you fuck him to his pleasure’s pace. His mouth is so warm when he starts to kiss your skin.   
  
To his brim for that, straight in, deepest yet, a whole two inches more giving him sex as his insides collapse for you with a groan, let him shudder around you, pull back, feel his legs spreading to it, to again, to again, again, squirming his bliss on you, having another orgasm so fast you can’t conceive it, don’t even try, just keep on, seeking the ecstasy that fills Karkat’s gaze with tears. You can’t keep your mouth off his, and go so far past paradise with what happens to your bulge when it’s in the blessing of his nook. He’s so wet for you, so fucking _wet_ , cumming more as he holds you in him with those hot little hands, crying your name. You make his globes weep with heat frenzy, give up bountiful surrender while you ravish Karkat by the thrusts he’ll bear.   
  
And when it comes time for _you_ to bucket, you spread your little mate, pinning his legs apart to make it easier, and gently take hold of his neck with your teeth. Karkat relaxes as utterly as he does for hours of cuddles and hornrubs, hugs down on your tip, and, sweetly, _milks your bulge_. And you, with a groan of affection and joy, release your globes into your best friend for the first time. Savor it slow, roar in triumph.   
  
Nowhere for it to go but deeper, and you’re seeding his precious depths, staining, claiming. It pools around you in excess, but your suckers anticipate that and clamp powerfully before his walls get pushed apart. Squeeze them inward, making him pay it attention, suck it in deep. Karkat’s head falls back and he breathes up little fragmented prayer-pleas. New ridges begin to progress in—to seal up between his legs where he might reject your slurryflood—vying to get all of you in for release. You’ve never been so aware of the mechanics of orgasm. You get half a foot more stuffed up his nook while you seed it, and you continue cumming for a long time. You purr utter bliss as you _finally_ finish, consummated in his sacred flesh, got him with every drop of pity. He fucked you, he took it, and now he’s so wet and full.   
  
_Yours yours yours yours_. Everything in the fucking world agrees. Yours now, always will be. The sweetest troll in the universe is like a balloon, big belly hanging out, legs parted for your ruined bulge, drooling red heatslick from slurry-inflated mating parts. Karkat leans up to your mouth first he moves. You swallow a lump in your throat and gasp his name around his little tongue. You fondle his horns and pull gently from his well-filled nook. He orgasms straight off, choking, pumping intermixed cum both from between his legs as he throbs, and as he begins, you thrust deep enough that his eyes glaze. Your suckers clamp arrhythmic and devious, rocking you both hard, making you fuck in soon as you can bear to pop them free, even if that just means shallow thrusts over and over.   
  
You _wish_ you could give him time to empty all the way, but this has to happen now; your instincts are past control. So he has his wellspace stirred and churned, and the slurry gets in everything, sloshes and shakes and helps with his fucking. Only when he begs do you let him give up the rest of your exhausted cum, empty his pulsating sex on the floor. You stroke your bulge while he gushes indigo in relief, then mate your hungry length back up where it belongs. You feel him have a deep orgasm as soon as you drive the thrust home and you kiss him over and over, purr his beautiful name, settle your hips to mate good and steady, rutting in him while he lies below you.   
  
He cries out as you wet his deepest places a second time—yeah, right there, shooting your slurryclaim in with confidence—nuzzling as you pet him, pull him tight against you, resume feeding into his sex during its filling, plugging his insides tight around your seeding bulge, hold him in your gentle fangs. Feel his belly swelling with cum, nestlespace bubbling slick around your girth. You’ve bucketed him twice, you’re so motherfucking done—   
  
But Karkat is too cute, too warm, making sounds of abandon and pulsing on what’s been put all the way in. Your globes don’t have a drop, but you send a mating thrust to him and his legs splay, he shivers, goes still, whines until you start to fuck him heavy. Lies there and enjoys it. You push him down, lift his hips, drive your bulge to his nook in hunger, commanding him to be blissful. He mates on you like he ain’t done your bucket twice already. It’s too good. Together, you watch your bulge swell, veins pulse, flesh beginning to weep thicker indigo in preparation, and you’re amazed, because you already got him another load, didn’t you? Want him so bad. Want him begging when you get off inside. You give him another big, heavy swell of cum—your bulge securely clutched to and seeding its mate until Karkat just trembles, half-lidded, gazing while his belly bows out spectacularly and your globes at last sag with sating. After you finish, you gently retract your length from what you have mated so desperately, kiss down his spine, cradle him against you, pray you didn’t do harm.   
  
Precious little Karkat starts an ocean of your color out his gaping nook—stretched out in obviously post-fucked shape, wide and trembling and pouring every shade like a faucet. Been fucked out, goddamn. You tell him so, purring, and Karkat just curses you desperately, attracting your mouth to his honey sweet vitriol. You carry him to the coon while his nook releases its burden. You don’t climb in after him. Heart in your throat, you lay soft kisses on his lips, linger at his side.   
  
And Karkat decides to beckon you in. Mate behavior, for having been having your slurry riding his insides so long. And moirail behavior. You care which one he feels, but not enough to ask. It is enough to have him close.  
  
Instead you eagerly accept him into your arms, balancing him above the sopor surface and purring Karkat to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. Am finally returning to Grub Cage and Ad Hoc now.

In the dusk, you grin to yourself and slip fingers in his hair.   
  
All last week, neither of you slept in sopor. It makes you groggy—and when Karkat needs it, you best be paying attention. But this time Karkat got well and properly laid. Little sugar nook of his wasn’t hardly gonna need it renewed before dusk, was it? Now he blushes at you, like he ain’t already precious enough, just still being here come morning.  
  
“What you thinking about?” You murmur, taking a little ear into your lips, for your tongue and teeth while you pet your way down to his newly mated silky places. Messiahs, you were inside of that. You were inside of _him_. “Want another go already?” He smells wonderful. Even the sopor spilled into his loosened nook while he slept is hot with lust.   
  
“As if,” Karkat splutters. Little sugargrub nuzzles into your skin as you teasing his ear wins a gasp. “The way you’re looking at me is _stupid_.”  
  
“I pity you so much, my miracle love,” you purr. He’s covered with bites and bruises where your mouth was in possession of him. Karkat offers a throaty, dazed keening as you suck his color to the surface, suck again, darkening it to the utmost. His arms are around you, holding your mouth against him. You breathe into the sweetness of his skin. “I got my heart hanging onto me and smiling hello when his eyes open. What am I supposed to do but smile back?”   
  
“I didn’t smile like _that_ ,” Karkat mutters.   
  
_Damn_ , but he did smile the sweetest, craftiest little gaze at you, mischief and tender and all happy hello, nestled into the crook of your arm for safekeeping. Your heart is gonna bust. You ain’t even half sure what’s to be done with him this eve, looking so happy to wake up with you.   
  
You kiss him on the mouth slow and purr—no more protesting that it’s meant to be pale. Karkat hitches a heated thigh over your arm, trying to climb, spreading his nook—the kind of purposeless squirming that is now full of truth. Your bulge responds and clutches suckers to him right off, coiling around the entrance you’ve occupied by your caressing fingers. Bulgetip nudges inside to join them. Karkat gasps breathlessly, head tilted back, and you marvel how tight he goes.   
  
“Sure you don’t want some more loving?”   
  
Karkat whines, pushes his hips at you. “Oh Jegus, what is wrong with you.” You start kissing his throat and he moans, squeezing desperate on your touch. “Gamzee. Please, _please_ fuck me—“   
  
Pull fingers out one by one, gradual, as you crowd your sex inside. Karkat makes a sound that is half protest. You laugh, take his hips and slide in nice and deep. Keep going with purrs as you reclaim the full depth and stretch him wide. He whimpers and clutches your base by hand as his hips roll, getting his carnival ride on. The stunned look on his face makes you giddy with pride.  
  
“Sopor in you,” you laugh—packed where your slurry is supposed to go from your bulge pushing it along on its way inside. Karkat makes a face.   
  
“And it feels gross. I swear to god if you try to eat _an_ —!” He goes red, face screwed up in awe, hands to your shoulders. You growl thunderously as he pleasures you so well. You give him it slow, protracted, full bulge receding and then pushing back in, giving his precious inside the slowest fuck it has ever felt, pumping out hot sopor and in fresh cold slime. Karkat cums sweetly, after a long bout of cringing and moaning, and you continue to triumph over his mating parts, heat them up and make them remember they’re yours.   
  
“Gonna bucket in you,” you purr in adoration. “Do it till you trill.”   
  
“Stupid greedy shitstain,” Karkat gasps and crushes his nook forward for you. You drive steadily into his hitching, watching him orgasm and cling and smile dazedly at you. His every gasp is treasure. You are in such pity with every little touch of his fingertips, with the suck of his nook lips, the heat in his eyes, way he moans into your mouth when he’s happiest.   
  
Your pleasure overwhelms when he sighs your name, hips rocking on his as you breach his slick insides, defy his emptiness with your seed. Let him pour a few minutes so he won’t burst, then push back into that gorgeous, dripping place of him, bite into his throat, and have the mating afresh, eagerly. Maybe half the night you spend just terrorizing his sex like that, fucking it stupid and keeping your seed harbored inside until even his eyes are wet. Pull your soaking bulge free and hold him as he rocks the rest of your color from his deeply swollen harbor. Still big and proud when he stops giving your juices up. You swear, touch him where he’s fat. He doesn’t even notice, too busy kissing you.   
  
You’re marveling all through (very late) breakfast, for all that he won’t let you touch it. Poor sugargrub can’t eat much because he’s already so full; ain’t enjoying such a big belly half as much as you. You watch some half a movie with Karkat panting in your lap, heatslick scorching your thighs, sweat dripping down his cheeks. Once he starts whimpering for you, you carry him to the ablution trap and lie him down there. You spend a moment just coaxing him to breathe.   
  
“Ease, sugargrub,” you hush. “You trust me?” When Karkat looks at you questioningly, you duck down between his legs. A shocked flurry of chirps follows you down. “No bulges.” You grin, pap his belly one, and greet his open nook.   
  
His sweets have been seasoned, their sugar-drip laced with the indigo slurry, and something else, a raw flavor that has to be victory, like your mouth knows the instant it licks in that he was broken in on ridge and sucker and girth, that he fucked and that he loved it. Karkat _croons_ over your attention. The first two orgasms are dry and confused—but once you finally get his nervous insides to do their business, he all but _explodes_. It’s messy, alright. Out his bulge and nook at once, heated with his belly, your color. All over him in a heartbeat, him screaming and moaning and rutting emptily as he produces your slurry. Arousal curls low into your at the sight of your most precious little love, giving your color in his orgasm, bulge all but curling back up into its sheathe with as much as he’s pumping, how hard you watch it wreck him. You keep working him on your fingers until he’s tinted your color a little warmer, belly shrunken back down, pulsing hard. He just leaks now, steady and helpless, bulge quivering in your hand. The both of you are covered in pity fluids. You have to giggle. Then you gulp, hugging him to you, overwhelmed by the sight and sounds of what he just did, arched and soaking himself, crying out as he gave your spill up.   
  
A troll retains slurry for one reason. Ain’t a lot of instincts older than drones, when the slurry had to be taken to the Mother Grub personally. A long, dangerous journey that made for, so what genetics were offered had to be worth it, complete with all cries of pleasure to know that mate would be given their eggs—there was significance there. There was a choice, a possessive claim of _mate_ and _mine_ and Karkat’s nook just did that for you.   
  
Karkat turns in your arms, tongue hot and greedy. Your mouth first, then hands; he licks down your stomach, to where he didn’t paint you, but where your bulge is out and thrashing gently, already dripping with thick, heady fluids. Looks up at you, hesitating. You’re gonna fucking lose it.   
  
“Yeah, okay,” you purr, push your tip close, him just crooning and drooling unquestioningly. He sucks on it as you drip further, down his mouth and chest, your bulge very prepared to go in between his legs and feed another bucket in. You keep that urge at bay, pet his hair back instead as he mouths you.   
  
“Pity you so much,” you say, voice hoarse and Karkat purrs on you, smacks his lips apart, drooling indigo slime, all of him precious and small and yours, and he holds your gaze.   
  
“Show me.”  
  
You groan.   
  
You lower him so it’ll be gentler, you feeding your length in. His legs close, hugging your bulge and restraining it, but as you force it a little, the trembling legs part in surrender, and the overt, splattering pleasure of his nook gets faster. You’re pleased to see him not giving a single thought to any soreness. You rub his folds while he fucks, let him lick and suck your fingers clean, vibrate with pleasure-drunk purrs. “That taste good, sugargrub?” Karkat moans pitifully each time you bring more to his mouth. Begs for seeding, rolling to hands and knees to beckon you hard down his belly. You use the angle to fiercely remind his insides what they want. “You motherfucking like tasting such a sauce? Like I been liking to suck on your nook _sweep after sweep?_ ”   
  
He moans, opens his mouth wider, sucking pleasantly as his nook works your length. You seed your thrill to him too fast—too fucking turned on—while he sucks three fingers and trills, pull free and admire how he ain’t letting a drop loose. Just clenching at the air, venting pheromone until your head spins. His lips part and he moans your name-prayer up.   
  
“You’re retaining it again,” you murmur, and he shivers under you. “Must feel real good to your belly.” You pet his swollen sides gently. “Might be best that you rest a while. Get another movie and all.”  
  
“No.” Karkat croaks. “More—more sauce.” Greedy, ain’t he, making you grip the walls of the trap as your globes heat? You spread him to your bulge again—have him bright red and sweating as an orgasm doesn’t spill, just makes him melt—and after hours of you in and out of his warmth, you are fucking fresh slurry into his heat, swearing. Karkat all pulse and use, insides fully devoted to their task, and you grip him tight so you can pull him off if there’s one flinch of pain. Tiny, precious thing ain’t liable to hold two buckets safely, but instead, he’s rocking on you, greedy suction on your coils, your suckers squeezing him in time, pleasure burning you to ash. You will never forget the sound he’s making for getting so overfull, or how low he purrs into your mouth when you kiss him in wonder.   
  
He sinks down on his side once he’s gotten it all in, bloated and whining with exhaustion. You spoil him with kisses and petting, all the love he’ll let you cover him in. Eventually, you lift your messy Karkat out and make him dinner. After the meal, you slide your fingers into his leaking nook. No trap this time. You want sugargrub to make a big mess for you, so you hold his shaking legs open and let him decorate as he screams and pumps his belly out. Once his release is slower down his shaking legs, you mate again.   
  
Karkat clutches the table and pants as he rides your bulge. Needy, slicking down your shaft as you progress through his swollen insides. You achieve your next orgasm after he’s limp and weak and all satisfied little coos. Karkat lifts his head and moans, babbling with pleasure. He relaxes back down when you’ve finished shooting, purring and hugging slick flesh around you willingly. Yours to do with as you will.   
  
Messiahs, he’s so beautiful. Stained indigo, wide and pulsing, and marked by you all over, yes, taken. Claimed.   
  
Again. Now. You gentle, but have him a fourth time. Too aroused to stop, too taken by him crying your name, his big belly gone so huge as it harbors bulge and bucket both, the way his slick little embrace fucks you with avarice. You’re faster now, almost too fast; you want it drawn out—but he’s having his dry orgasms over and over at the top of his lungs and you can’t withstand him.   
  
He doesn’t release, but openly gushes when you pull out. Summons you close with chirps of your name and makes your mouth into a slave to his loving kisses. You just touch him. Hours, you could spend showing love to every inch of his flesh. Nights. _Sweeps_. You’d never say eternity, because that might make this sound earthly.   
  
He won’t stop showing you his gasping, indigo-painted nestlespace, not even now, after so much use. You put your mouth to every tremor he can make, savoring your sugargrub’s envy of your bulge, the way frantic slick begs from his nestlespace. Your head spins. You hold him until his scent has melted to yours. And you rut his insides, of course you do, one look has your bulge swollen and eager to mate him until you both drop. Your thrusting wrecks him so, mating cries wild with pleasure, burning in your throat, and your globes empty harder into his little fountain, conquest of his insides done without spite. Stopping ain’t an option. What he needs, he shall have, and you clutch each other, pound his sweet little nook with your lusts, his pheromones filling your lungs, keeping you high.   
  
When you’re back in clean sopor Karkat smells so much like you. He’s clinging and you cannot even try to keep awake in his arms.   
  
He’s pleasuring his nook when you next wake. Bulge and fingers in to tease himself, pushing steadily up into his sweetness. You snuggle in close and Karkat hums softly, lets you spread him. “Oh, best beloved, ain’t gotta do that. I make you wait long?” You empty out his entrance gently, and Karkat snorts.   
  
“You fucking woke up _the minute_ I put my bulge in. Your priorities are horrible.” You laugh and there’s a crooked grin—he bows his head when you take him, sweetest little moan as you hug him tight. Feel him take to it, to spilling your indigo from his own bulge because you are so vigorous, so loath to give him up, so eager to seed up his warm passage with all the slurry he’ll take, and he’s pulling it all into his seedflap like you’ve been his mate for sweep upon sweep, he’ll use your color for his pleasure, make your slurry his, claim you so.   
  
You pity him like an ocean wave, where the crash makes the next one bigger and you don’t have to stop.   
  
The heat extends itself—full week more of Karkat needing constant touch. And you, amorous and gentle and his, see to it that he’s full once every motherfucking hour. No lie; Karkat can hardly breathe before your globes are full from want of him. You cannot figure out how to untangle your arms from his warmth. You call him sweet names and share cuddles and Karkat plays with your bulge and horns and lips and clings and you are flushed lovers, tender and deep and true.   
  
Back of your thinkpan knows well that the future ain’t necessarily gonna be too pleasant, when his hormones stop telling him he’s gotta keep his mate. Heat won’t last forever.   
  
You grip him tighter.   
  
At least Karkat is bundled in your arms when it happens, sweaty and squirming, giggling up these little silly sounds that are melting your heart out of your chest. That’s one minute—the next, he deflates against you all of a sudden, his body saying _no more._ You’ve been smelling it a while already. His heat is done.   
  
You lower Karkat carefully, crooning the softest reassurances possible. Karkat doesn’t do much more than blink for a while, occasionally flailing out a hand that you catch and fold to your chest before Karkat can knock it against the tiles. Your other hand strokes your mate’s sex-mussed hair lightly, giving some point of contact for the little troll to focus in on. And eventually, it works. Karkat’s gaze sharpens, scanning your face with his jaw tight while you offer nothing but your sweetest croon and silent prayer that Karkat remember how tenderly the thing was done, how his eyes shined when you called him sugar and kissed him soft. You will let him go if he needs to run, but damn if it won’t kill you if you are to be his shame again.   
  
“Gamzee,” Karkat says quietly, voice heavy. No more giggles. Your grip on him tightens. “…We still good?”   
  
_You tell me_ , you think. You nod and smile. You can read the fear in your little brother’s eyes. “Good as all gray,” you promise, and lean down kiss his forehead. You linger just a moment, possessive, and then pull back because possessive ain’t what your sugargrub needs right now.   
  
So imagine your surprise when Karkat finds your lips with his own, sucking a soft kiss there, a little swipe of tongue that is _not_ pale—and gone before you can reciprocate. A tremor goes through you, like thunder through your bones and Karkat is avoiding your eyes, rolling over, hiding behind his arms, but that was not rejection, that was confirmation, that was acceptance, that was _flushed pity_.   
  
He ain’t heatfucked at all right now.   
  
“You look like an idiot,” Karkat informs you. “Stop smiling.”   
  
“Hell to the no,” you splutter, purring so hard it hurts. “Mine? You serious?” He resists when you try to turn him towards you, so you just start kissing all over bare shoulders, gentle as you can, but you’re going to wear the skin raw if you don’t stop. “Stay mine. Stay mine, and I’ll pity you forever, I will give you everything, sugargrub, I will, I swear to you by every carnival star—“   
  
“I’m not staying,” Karkat mutters. “I never _stay_.” Your heart stops and then he nuzzles under your chin, eyes wicked sharp and warmer than you ever thought, “It’s just that you keep me.”   
  
And so you do.


End file.
